


Salted Sourdough

by Cybra



Series: Inheritance AU [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, scrooge is only there in memories, seeming major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 13:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14137377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cybra/pseuds/Cybra
Summary: (Re-posted from original post on tumblr.)  Scrooge had promised Beakley that he and the twins would be back in a week, but it's been two months and he still isn't home yet.  As Beakley continues keeping the mansion just as he likes it, Della and Donald arrive with bad news.





	Salted Sourdough

**Author's Note:**

> Scrooge and Beakley bounce off of each other so well in the reboot, and I wanted to write something with them. What I came up with was this bit of horrible. Like I said in the summary, this has been re-posted from my original tumblr post.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** _Ducktales_ belongs to the Walt Disney Company.

Bentina Beakley had worked for Scrooge McDuck for a long, long time, long enough to watch his niece and nephew grow from small children to young adults.  Even knowing her past, Scrooge had made her his right-hand woman and the manor was just as much hers as his.  They’d gotten into plenty of spats over the years, but no other employer she’d worked for had inspired the same level of loyalty in her that she felt for Scrooge, a loyalty that never had to be spoken aloud to know was reciprocated in whole by the old man.

As such, she’d seen hundreds if not thousands of incidents in the recent history of the tiny Clan McDuck which would’ve made the gossip papers salivate.  Often times Donald and Della would come to the mansion at odd hours of the day or night for refuge from arguing with their parents or even each other, the door to the massive mansion always remaining open to them.  She’d been there when Donald had come while grieving for a very close friend he’d gotten to know in boot camp and had shared a relatively quiet Navy tour with that had died in a senseless car accident.  She’d made tea the night Della had come to McDuck Manor in a torrential downpour after having a row with her mother when she’d found out she was pregnant.  Scrooge never asked her to be discrete; he didn’t have to.  In fact, he’d had to hold her back when a particularly persistent member of the media had tried to milk the latter scandal for all it was worth and outright accused Scrooge of locking his niece away out of shame.  (The fact that Della had asked to stay in the mansion to avoid the media was, apparently, irrelevant.  It was all about the ratings and subscriptions, and _surely_ someone as wealthy as Scrooge who claimed to have made his money square had to be hiding something juicy.)

Not that they visited for only bad things, of course.  The twins adored their Uncle Scrooge and always loved going on adventures with him.  She found herself nearly tripping over them quite often when they were children as they went on grand imaginary quests with the old bird, ultimately getting pulled into the game by all three.  Some days she missed the times when the grand mansion became the latest hidden jungle or lost city as the twins, too young to be real adventurers themselves, created their own adventures at home.

Today, however, was not one of the light-hearted visits.  Today, they stood on the doorstep of McDuck Manor with hats in hand and tears in their eyes.

“Mrs. B…”  Della choked and swallowed, obviously trying to find her voice, before she simply whimpered.

Beakley was tempted to slam the door in the twins’ faces.  She knew what was coming, had feared it since she’d heard of an accident in Greece on the news.  The disappearance of the world’s richest duck wasn’t an event that passed by quietly.  The twins hadn’t even called her until two days afterwards, and it was hard not to resent them for it.  She’d focused entirely on leaving the pair be so they could search without her hovering, and every scrap of metal in the house had a mirror finish from her need to distract herself from worry.

Donald forced out what she’d dreaded hearing: “We couldn’t find him.”

Her knees felt weak; her stomach, sick.  The impossible had been made a reality.

 _“We’ll be back in a week with the Spear!  Count on it!”_ Scrooge’s cheerful voice echoed in her mind.  (Two months ago.  He’d told her that two months ago, and he hadn’t been back like he’d promised.)

“The Greek authorities finished their investigation.  They said it was an accident,” the young man said dully, twisting the cap in his hands.

“I see,” she whispered, having to take three deep breaths before she could manage even that much.

Della bowed her head, hiding her face and shaking.  “U-Uncle Scrooge’s will is supposed to be read t-t-tomorrow at two.  At the Bin.  Can you please…?”

“I’ll be there.  Thank you for letting me know.”

* * *

The pair didn’t stay long, and the space they’d kept between themselves more than proved that there was something _very wrong_ with the family.

Beakley found it impossible to avoid thinking about how Scrooge wasn’t around anymore to help them pick up the pieces.  It was a relief when the pair left for their own homes.  She wanted to be alone for when the inevitable tears came.

They didn’t come even when she went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and saw the jar on the back of the top shelf covered with an old dish towel held in place by a rubber band.  On the jar was a label proclaiming in bold script “DO NOT THROW AWAY UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES”.  She remembered their first fight when he’d seen her nearly throw it away.

_“The contents of that jar is priceless!”_

_“Mr. McDuck, it’s gone rancid!  I’m throwing it out!”_

_“It’s not rancid, and I’ll prove it!”_

She removed the jar, her mouth twitching with the memory of him grabbing a stool to stand on and going to work.  She carefully eyed the mixture, comparing the amount to that of a few hours ago when she’d fed it.  (Scrooge had added flour and water to it once a week with the same fanaticism that most attributed to the deeply religious, and one of her duties was to perform the task in his absence.)  The jar’s sour-smelling contents had clearly doubled in size since the feeding.  It was ready.

She heard the old man’s lecture as she went through the motions of preparing the ingredients, adding some of the concoction, and feeding the jar again to replace what she’d taken before putting it back in the refrigerator.  The motions were long-familiar by now.  What she was making now was a staple at McDuck Manor, served at every meal in various forms: sourdough bread made from the same starter Scrooge had maintained since his days in the Klondike.

As she sat and waited between each step for the dough to rise and then bake, she was reminded of every time the ritual was repeated in this very kitchen.  Neither said much when Scrooge’s rolled-up sleeves were getting dusted with flour while he worked the dough and she fixed the rest of dinner.  The quiet, domestic camaraderie of fixing a meal together had been enough, and the kitchen’s warmth held a comfort for the bad days that couldn’t be found anywhere else in Duckburg.

She desperately needed that comfort right now.

The bread came out of the oven golden brown and smelled heavenly.  However, she didn’t rush to eat it, allowing it to cool slightly before she cut off a thick slice and bit into it.

 _“You see what you nearly threw away, you daft woman?”_   She could still see his insufferably smug smirk from her surprise at that very first bite of what her friends called the famous Killmotor Hill sourdough.

This bite, however, tasted salty.  Only then did she realize there were tears streaming down her face, the bread soaking them up as they dripped down onto it.

_“We’ll be back in a week with the Spear!  Count on it!”_

No, he wouldn’t.  He broke his promise.  He was never coming back.

The seemingly-immortal Scrooge McDuck was _gone._

Each bite she took was saltier than the last, but she didn’t care.  Scrooge would’ve been furious if she wasted a single crumb.

Regardless of what came out of the old man’s will tomorrow, she was taking the jar and its contents.  She would at least have this to remember him by.

But for now, she cut herself another slice from the loaf.


End file.
